Pen To Paper, Scythe To Skin
by TheAssassinGame
Summary: After Darquesse's defeat, Roarhaven is in a process of returning to normal. But not for everyone. Isolde Phoenix, an English journalist, goes to Ireland to report on the events and to interview the affected. She forges an unlikely friendship in the suffering Cleaver, Jared Stark, scarred after going up against the world killer, just in time for a new foe to appear...
1. The Aftermath

Hey, so new story! After finishing Dying of the Light, I desperately wanted to pick up where Derek Landy left off and so here it is! Those of you who are familiar with me and my assassin's creed stories, sorry but I've put those aside for the moment to write this. I doubt it'll be very long but I'm not setting it in stone, who knows? Anyway, enjoy and I'll update soon :)

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><p>Jared sat up, drew the curtain, stood and winced. It had been a week since the battle of Roarhaven but his body still hadn't fully recovered. Maybe that was because his mind hadn't fully recovered either.<p>

He had fought against her, Darquesse, the one who would destroy the world. He had seen the look of evil on her face, her soulless eyes that scarred his mind. He could read her expression and he saw the hatred. He could see her pure, unbridled power and that's what scared him the most. She wasn't just the destroyer of the world. She was the destroyer of worlds, universes, realities, all of it, she would conquer and kill.

But he had survived, when so many had not.

Stretching, he checked his knees, making sure they wouldn't break the moment he took a step. He had been lying in the Medical Ward for a week and today was his first day of trying to walk. She had broken his legs and he thought he was going to die. He remembered standing alone, grey bodies surrounding him as he raised his scythe. Maybe he shook, that he couldn't remember. He wouldn't have been surprised. Darquesse tore them apart. He watched her slice open the famous Necromancer, Solomon Wreath. He didn't even have time to put up a fight. But Jared... Jared survived.

Sometimes, he let that guilty thought cross his mind that perhaps, because of this, he was stronger than Wreath.

But he knew that wasn't true.

He remembered his scythe shattering before he could make a swing at the world killer, moments later, his knees cracked, both at the same time. He fell and whether he cried out or not didn't hold a place in his memory but what his memory strongly held onto was that young woman, dressed in a rusty red, stepping towards him. She was going to kill him with her bare hands. She was a form of pure evil, that much he could see through his visor. His heart thumped louder than ever and she was so close, she was more than close enough to raise a finger and his head would fly from his shoulders.

But the other one, the original, jumped. Jared followed Darquesse's gaze and watched her, frustrated as she spun, watching Valkyrie Cain land, her body intact. Darquesse left him and Jared allowed himself a moment to relax. He wouldn't die, not today, and then slipped back into the excruciating pain of broken bones and muscles. Then, he blacked out. Then, he woke up in the Irish Sanctuary's Medical Ward.

He had been kept under observation for a while, Synecdoche passed by with few questions, obviously more curious on his mental state than his physical state. The latter would heal over time. But being up close and personal to a world killer, well, that may take a little longer.

Jared dressed in his usual grey apparel and left the Medical Ward, heading down the corridor. His footsteps echoed about and his fingers danced, anxious, wanting to draw his scythe from his back. He was safe of course, but his mind told him something else. Every shadow, every movement made him think Darquesse was back, hunting him down to finish the job. He shivered and stopped. Making sure he definitely was alone, he pulled off his helmet and drew in long breaths to calm himself. His weak knees gave way and he fell. Lying awkwardly on the smooth, cold floor, Jared shook. He didn't want to cry, but his body told him differently.

Plagued by the thoughts of Darquesse standing over him, Jared wept, holding his face. He drew his body into the side of the corridor and tried to hide himself, as if she was in the shadows, watching. He held himself and almost wished he had died that day. If he had, she wouldn't be following him, to finish the job.

"You'll never find me... Never." The lone Cleaver whispered, but couldn't quite convince himself.


	2. Londoners

It rained.

But then again, in London, when doesn't it?

Isolde shivered and pulled her hood up as she left the coffee shop, the warmth of the winter branded hot chocolate soon leaving her. Checking the flow of traffic, she crossed the roads, arms around her as she hurried through the city. She reached the large building, set just beside the river Thames. She pushed open the doors and walked through the normal looking reception to the front desk. Isolde shook some of the rain off her before pulling her hood back, pleased to be back in the warm.

"Ah, back so soon, love?" The receptionist smiled.

"Yeah, figured that my break was long enough." She replied. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

"The usual. Still picking up the pieces after you-know-who."

Isolde chuckled.

"Come on, this isn't Harry Potter, no one's gonna recognise her name if they're mortal."

The receptionist shrugged.

"People get curious. Especially mortals. Need I remind you of that reporter over in Ireland?"

"Ah, yeah. Kenny." Isolde nodded. "Good point."

"The Administrator will be right down." The receptionist stated and gave her a smile as she waited.

Isolde looked around, glancing at all the normal people here. They thought this place was a hotel and, by all intensive purposes, it was. Bar one room.

The Administrator, a pleasant looking man by the name of Bradley Drake, approached the front desk and the receptionist smiled, passed him a key and wished him an enjoyable visit. He thanked her and signalled Isolde to follow him.

"You're early." He remarked and she shrugged.

"I was bored. There's only so much you can do on your phone with no internet and the slowest WiFi in the world." She said.

"That may be true but you know we can't add twenty minutes to your payroll, right?"

"I don't care, it's fun here. Lots of interesting things to write about. That's my payment."

"Well don't tell that to Mister Rackham, or he'll not pay you at all." Drake warned. "And besides, you find the aftermath of the battle of the Sanctuaries and the rising of Darquesse 'fun'?"

At his raised eyebrow, she frowned.

"Maybe 'fun' was the wrong word. Interesting, then."

"I can see that."

The two walked up the stairs to the third floor and continued along the corridor until they reached door number 307 and unlocked it. The room behind it was not a room, but in fact a set of stairs, leading down to the London Sanctuary, based behind the hotel.

"I heard, in Dublin, their Sanctuary entrance was in a waxworks museum and one of the waxwork people talked. Why don't we have that?"

Drake shrugged.

"But their Sanctuary's in Roarhaven now, isn't it?"

Drake nodded.

Isolde bit her lip. Maybe she was being a bit annoying.

She was eighteen and just starting her apprenticeship as a journalist, a sorcerer journalist, and enjoying every minute of it. All the scares, all the disaster that failed to make the news of normal civilians were written about in the sorcerer newspapers. Isolde had known about magic for nearly all her life but had told none of her friends. In her English A level course, she had been congratulated for her creative writing and vast imagination. They didn't know it wasn't just her imagination, but true experiences. Her teachers found her character of Valkyrie Cain to be very well written, as if she was actually real. Unbeknownst to them, she was.

Her journalism apprenticeship had taken her to many places of interest across London, homes of sorcerers who were affected by the recent events, but in particular, the London Sanctuary.

"Ah, Miss Phoenix." Another man smiled as Isolde and the Administrator approached. "You're early."

"So I've been told." She nodded and Drake left them.

"No matter, still, much to do." Lionel Rackham led her through the corridors of the Sanctuary until they reached an office, littered with papers and stuffed filing cabinets.

"Apparently, tidying this is your job." Rackham muttered under his breath as he waded through the sea of papers to get to his desk.

Isolde grinned. She liked Rackham. He named himself after the pirate, Jack Rackham and added in Lionel since he had a soft spot for lions. Or Lionel Richie. She couldn't remember which. He was nice and funny and shared her geeky personality. He was a good boss.

Rackham rummaged through the papers on his desk and picked up one, tapping it as if to confirm it being the right one.

"Here we go." He said, holding it up.

"What is it?" Isolde asked, gently kicking papers away from her feet.

"Well, we've been requested to further our research into the Darquesse case."

"Okay, but we don't have much here-"

"Exactly." He cleared his throat for dramatic effect and held up the paper, as if reading from an ancient scroll.

"Isolde, we're going to Ireland."


	3. A Trip To Ireland

Isolde squealed and Rackham grinned triumphantly. That was the reaction he was going for.

"Really?!" She clapped her hands together, eyes wide. She'd always wanted to go Ireland, see the sights. After all, her chosen name had been based on an Irish princess, the tale of Tristan and Isolde, her favourite folklore story.

"Yep!" He put the paper, folded, into his back pocket and led the way out of the door. "There'll be other journalists from other Sanctuaries from across the world there too, America, Australia, even Scotland!"

Isolde frowned.

"Scotland isn't on the other side of the world."

"Isn't it?" He paused. "Oh, well, in that case, I owe Mister Drake a sincere apology."

"Um..."

"I may have called him a unintelligent cretin for believing Scotland was connected to us."

"Oh dear. Did you ever do geography?"

"Once. But on finding out that the Bahamas were a little more than driving distance away, I figured the subject wasn't for me."

"So you didn't do it for GCSEs?"

Rackham laughed.

"Ah, no. This was last week."

Isolde opened her mouth to say something, but could think of no contribution to this turn of the conversation. So, they continued on down the hall, nodding to various Sanctuary members.

"We'll be meeting with another London source and then will be travelling with her back to Roarhaven." Rackham told her and stepped into another room, drenched in white.

The room was decorated with various paintings and book shelves, to which the woman, her back to them, was rummaging through. She had long, wavy blonde hair, dressed in a long black jacket and long leather boots, her sword hanging from her waist.

"Damn it, no Edgley books." She grumbled and Isolde's jaw dropped.

"Is that Tanith Low?" She squeaked, tugging on Rackham's sleeve and he gave an excited nod.

"Miss Low?" He said and she turned, grinning at them both.

"Hi," she gave a little wave, "I'm Tanith-"

"I'm a huge fan!" Isolde squealed again, trying not to jump up and down.

"Uh..."

"Sorry, I think you're great, with all the sword fighting and arse kicking, it's just so cool!"

Tanith grinned.

"Aw, cheers! I don't usually get much credit for arse kicking, it's more Skulduggery and Val that gets the blame for that."

"Are we gonna meet them too?" Isolde asked Rackham.

"Possibly, we need to get first hand information-"

Isolde squealed again.

"So, ah, anyway," Tanith continued, a little concerned on the eighteen year old's childish behaviour, "being English and all, I figured we should be the first to arrive instead of travelling by more mundane means."

Rackham and Isolde jumped as a boy, roughly Isolde's age, appeared beside Tanith. Fletcher Renn grinned.

"Ah, Teleporter, good plan." Rackham nodded. "I don't think I quite have the money to make the various plane trips and the jet lag with the time zone changes and-"

"You really don't know anything about geography, do you?" Isolde frowned and Rackham shook his head rather mournfully.

"Right, hold on everyone." He said, his Irish accent prominent against the Londoners.

They did so, taking his arms that he held out, and a moment later, they were in the reception of the Irish Sanctuary. Rackham gagged and promptly threw up on the polished floor.

"Sorry." He wheezed, wiping his mouth shamefully.

Tanith stepped over the puke puddle and led the way through the Sanctuary, an upset looking sorcerer going the other way, mop and bucket in hand.

"For being magic and all, there's something said for the mortal way of doing things." Fletcher remarked, glancing over his shoulder as the sorcerer mumbled something mournfully and got to work.

"So where to first?" Isolde asked, the uneasy feeling of travel sickness soon drifting away.

"The Medical Ward, we can talk to a few people there." Tanith said and they nodded.

As they reached their destination, they were greeted by various journalists, reporters, scattered around, looming over the injured, cameras inches from their faces, microphones threatening to wind up embedded in their nose.

"What was that about us being the first?" Rackham mumbled, arms folded.

Tanith sighed, groaned something about Teleporters, and approached them.

"Right, come on, let's give them some room-"

"Unlikey!" An American voice called out.

A dark haired reporter, a woman in her late twenties, turned around, a hand on her hip.

"So we move aside and then you Brits get the story instead?" She drawled, her mouth pinched into a ridiculing look.

"That's not it, you're basically smothering them-"

"If it's necessary to get the story then we will do just that."

"Just move back!" Tanith drew her sword. Like many Londoners, she had no patience for insufferable Americans.

"Miss Low!" A doctor emerged into the scene, waving a clipboard. "No violence in my ward, please!"

"Yes, sorry." Tanith sheathed her sword, but kept her glower.

"If you'll follow me, there's someone else you can interview."

Synecdoche led them out of the way of the other journalists and towards another wing. Looking back, Isolde noted that all the injured were recovering Elementals and Adepts, no Necromancers, no mortals either. This didn't surprise her, but she just wondered if other journalists were interviewing them too.

They approached a different wing, vacant of reporters.

"Why is no one here?" She asked Rackham.

"No one's interested in the Cleaver point of view. To other sorcerers, they're no more than grey, dispensable bodyguards." He replied and Synecdoche drew back the curtain and Jared sat up.


End file.
